


Different time

by Ihaveseentwoghosts



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: 22 year old bill, 23 year old Stanford, Backupsmore University (Gravity Falls), College, Human Bill Cipher, M/M, Mentions of Violence, also probably some violence, bill isn’t human but he sure seems like it, bills a theater kid now I guess, friends - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-11-18
Packaged: 2020-11-02 09:36:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20701580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ihaveseentwoghosts/pseuds/Ihaveseentwoghosts
Summary: "A-X-O-L-O-T-L! My time has come to burn! I invoke the ancient power that I may return!"For a chaos god to redeem himself and start over, it is probably best if he no longer has any knowledge of all the unforgivable things he has done. But there will always be one consistent presence in the lives of Bill Cipher and that is Stanford Pines.





	1. Chapter 1

A sharp inhale was the first of his memories as life seemed to began for the young man who shot up in an unfamiliar bed. An odd feeling greeted him as he did so, a pulsing in his chest. Investigating the movement, his hand slowly rose to meet the source. A beating heart lay beneath his palm as it seemed to be fighting its way out from behind its cage of bone. However, a barrier still lay between his hand and his chest; it was a cool, flat piece of metal, a tag. Inscribed on the tag were four letters, it was a name. The tag read 'BILL' in a plain, legible font. Concluding that he had been left with a name tag, the young man now known as Bill, pushed himself from the mattress and let his feet fall onto the cool tile floor below.

White, speckled tile floor lined the room that he now resided in, its surface cold and smooth with occasional scuff marks throughout its area. Glancing around the room, Bill noticed its emptiness. The room had only been furnished with a bed and a small wooden desk in the corner that was accompanied by a matching chair. On that desk lay a single piece of paper that caught Bill's attention immediately. Desperate for answers, he tried to move towards it, however, he stumbled on his feet as he did so. After regaining some level of balance his hands grasped the surface of the desk, clinging to the edge to stay standing.

The writing on the paper had not been typed but instead written out in a deep-blue ink, however, it's precise script had suggested that whoever had written the letter had taken their time and strived for perfection. Stuck to the note with a strip of clear tape was a key, bronze in color. The writing next to it explained that it was the key to the room. Relieved that he was not trapped like he had first assumed, Bill allowed his weight to fall onto the chair at his side, his back pressed against the wood as he pulled the note to his face. Squinting his eyes, he read over the note. The phrasing of the sentences were peculiar as they integrated varying levels of symbolism and metaphors, and Bill even suspected that he had been reading a poem for a few lines.

It took him some time to understand what it was the writer had been trying to tell him but was later able to piece together at least a portion of the message. His age is twenty-two, his location was the dormitory numbered C13 at Backupsmore University, the year was 1974, and it also explained that he was to follow the schedule listed on the other side of the paper. Flipping over the page, Bill was met with a daily class schedule. He furrowed his brow as he looked at the times and weekdays that his lectures took place; he did not even know what day it was today and he certainly did not know the time.

Deciding that following the schedule was far from the first on his list of priorities, Bill left the paper on the desk after slipping the key into the pockets of his loose-fitting, drawstring pants. Using his desk for support he began to push himself out of the chair. His legs still felt weak and shaky, as if they had not been used in sometime. They were able to hold his weight after the initial boost that his arms provided and he began making slow, calculated steps for the door.

Grasping the knob, Bill rested his weight on the frame for a few moments before he gathered the energy to swing the door open. The hinges squeaked as he did so, cutting through the silence of the empty hall that sat before him.

Long, narrow corridors with scuffed tile floors waited beyond the threshold. Fluorescent lights lined the ceiling, some of which flickered and dimmed in an unreliable pattern. While no one could be seen there were traces of conventions down the halls, the jumbled words bouncing down the corridor to meet Bill's ears.

Moving towards the noise, he kept close to the wall. His right hand trailed across its bumpy, painted cinder block surface as a safety precaution. As he walked towards the noise he was able to hear music accompany it. The twang of a banjo mingled with the conversation and distorted the words. The noises ceased for a moment, cut off but the loud slam of a door. Moments later the music began again, however, it was now muffled behind thick walls.

A new sound echoed throughout the halls now; the sound of loud, heavy footsteps moved towards him. Bill was unsure if his best option was to approach the noise or retreat back to the previous room, however, he quickly concluded that he was in no mood to socialize with the stranger who seemed to be stomping down the hall in an irritable state.

In a quick movement his shifted his body weight against the wall and placed both hands flat on the bricks. He began to quickly but carefully turn in the direction of the previous room and shuffle towards the still open door. It was not until he was only a few shimmies away from the doorway when he heard a voice call out to him, "Are you alright?" it questioned, causing his body to tense with surprise and what little balance he had quickly vanished. He tumbled to the floor in an ungraceful heap, letting out a huff of defeat once he realized there was no chance of regaining his composer.

The stranger who had called him before rushed over and the sound of his heavy boots echoed even louder now. The man stared down at him through thick framed glasses, his hands resting on his knees as he hunched forward to check on him. After a moment he held out one of those hands towards Bill, offering help up. Glancing at the outstretched hand Bill noticed it had six digits that did not match his own five. He was irritated, racking his brain to remember if humans were supposed to have five fingers or if he was the odd one out, having five fingers while everyone else had six.

Flaring his nose, Bill accepted the other's assistance and rested his hand in his. With a firm grip the stranger pulled the man up, however, due to Bill's weak form he had no choice but to loop his other arm around his torso as he hoisted him up. "You didn't answer me...," The stranger began to speak. "Are you alright?"

"Fine," Bill answered with a dismissive wave, trying to push away but as he did so his legs began to give out, this time the stranger caught him before he made contact with the floor once more.

"That was just a formality. I know you aren't." The other spoke. His tone was firm and left no room for argument. "I can walk you to the infirmary."

"No...My room is right there. Just—" swallowing the lump in his throat Bill carefully thought over his words, "—help me to the door."

"You need medical attention. You can't even stand."

"No I don't." Bill said stubbornly and pushed himself away from the other and let himself fall in the direction of the door, grabbing the knob as he leaned against the frame. Yellow tinted eyes glared at the other in a failed attempt at intimidation.

Crossing his arms, the other's serious look lit up a bit as an idea began to form. "Fine if you won't go...then how about a deal?"

Bill rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to trying to open the door without falling over. He felt no obligation to make a deal with the man who had the nerve to bother him when he clearly did not want company.

"Deal being," The man continued, "I won't forcibly carry you to the infirmary if you let me use your room to study in quiet while simultaneously keeping an eye on you."

"I don't need anyone to watch over me, besides I don't want a stranger in my room. I don't even know your name—"

"Stanford Pines. I'm twenty-three and studying the—"

"I don't need to know. I have a lot on my mind and I don't need useless information like that to add to the list," Bill mumbled as he opened the door and slid into the room, his hands gripping the door frame for balance.

His face falling into a frown, Stanford crossed his arms, "I'm not leaving you in this condition so do we have a deal or not—" he glanced to the metal tag hanging from Bill's neck, "—Bill."

Freeing one of his hands from the door, Bill tucked his tag into his shirt before holding out his hand to Stanford. "It's a deal...I guess."

With a smile Stanford grasped his hand, oddly, Bill felt a jolt of energy as he did so. Quickly, Bill pulled his hand back like he had just touched a hot pan. The other gave him an odd look and then explained that he had abandoned his notes and textbooks in the hall and that he would return after he retrieved them. However, before leaving he helped Bill to his bed and was lucky he did so for if Bill had the energy to run back to the door he would surely slam and lock it before Stanford could return.

It was not long before Stanford was back in the doorway, this time holding a stack of books. Wordlessly he stepped into the room and was about to push the door shut with his heel but was stopped by Bill who called out, "Leave the door open."

"Wh—" Stanford began to question but shut his mouth as he concluded the reason on his own. Understanding that the other was probably hesitant to have a stranger in his dorm room with him.

Bill watched the other carefully for sometime; Stanford did not speak much once he settled himself at the desk. He hunched over his books, occasionally running his six-fingered hand through his thick brown hair and huffing irritably at his own notes. Bill decided that while he hated the predicament he found himself in, at least Stanford was entertaining to watch. But he tried not to enjoy the distraction of the other for too long as he knew that there were far more pressing matters to sort through. The first of those being his own identity.

For the time being, Bill still did not know who he was. He could not recall the previous day...or any day for that matter. He felt unsteady and exposed; like he had nothing to guard him from the unfamiliar world around him because there was nothing familiar that he could lean towards.

Silence was broken when Stanford leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking as he stretched out his arms and arched his back. "I'm going to get some coffee. Do you want anything?"

Trying to decide on an answer, the smaller of the two scratched the back of his head and wondered if he liked coffee or if he had even ever had it. "Water," he finally answered. He was too mentally and physically drained to risk getting a drink he did not like.

With a short nod the student left the room, this time closing the door behind him and giving Bill a few moments of privacy while he walked to the cafeteria.

left to himself, Bill peered out the window, noting that the dark clouds that coated the sky made it appear much later than it probably was. Rain trickled down the window obscuring the view only slightly as he craned his neck to get a better look. Below he could see a courtyard lit by the white glow of street lamps. Various picnic tables sat empty, the wood soaked in water. In the rain, students rushed through the downpour who, from the bird's eye view that Bill had looked more like moving umbrellas rather than people. After a few moments passed he could see Stanford moving through the storm. He held his coat tight around his chest and kept his head low as the water drenched him.

Something about watching him was comforting and maybe even the familiarity he was looking for. He wondered if maybe people-watching was a hobby of his or if maybe it was specifically watching Stanford that felt so familiar. Nevertheless his eyes stayed glued to him as Bill clung to any familiarity he could find in hopes of regaining some of his memories.

As his target disappeared into the cafeteria building, Bill quickly lost interest and his attention turned to the papers scattered on the desk. Conjuring a plan, Bill outstretched his leg and while he struggled with the coordination he was eventually able to hook his foot into the chair and pull it towards him. The wooden pegs made a glass-shattering screech as they moved across the floor, leaving grey scuff marks on the tile.

Once he pulled the chair close enough, he was able to use the back as a handle to pull himself up. The wood creaked and his legs wobbled as he got to a standing position. Using the chair as a walker, he was able to move close enough to the desk. He fell into the seat of the chair and got comfortable before he peered over Stanford's notebook. Numbers and figures had been scribbled onto the page along with grey smudges that were left behind by an eraser. It occurred to Bill that the reason Stanford seemed so irritated with his studying was because he was trying to solve the equation for quite some time.

Getting a closer look at the notes, Bill noticed that it was one of the more complex physics questions that Stanford had been trying to answer. Underneath the question was an answer that had been circled multiple times in triumph; indicating that Stanford's hard work had paid off. However Bill was sure that it was wrong. He did not know how he knew as most of the equations and notes scribbled out seemed like gibberish to him; but he could not shake the idea that it just was not the right answer.

Reaching for a pencil that Stanford left behind, Bill began to write underneath the original answer. He was not sure what he was writing and his hand seemed to move on its own as he did so but just as he finished he heard the door open again.

"What are you doing?" Stanford asked and rushed over to see what Bill had been writing in his notes. "Wha—I've been working on that all night how did you—" he set the drinks and white plastic bag of snacks on the desk as he picked up the notes and examined the other's work. Quickly losing interest in the homework, Bill began to rummage through the bag thatStanford had placed on the desk, earning himself an odd look from the other.

"What is your major?" He asked, deciding to ignore the fact that Bill was opening up a bag of chips and examining each one closely before popping it in his mouth. The blonde gestured to the class schedule that still sat on the desk as he slowly chewed; he was taking in the textures and flavors carefully as if he had never eaten before.

Stanford reached for the schedule but it was snatched from his hand before he could glance at it. Bills heart was thumping and his cheeks darkened with embarrassment as he remembered that the paper not only held his class schedule but also a letter that would be hard to explain his way out of. Remembering a few of the classes he had seen earlier that day, he spoke. "Theater. I'm taking theater."

"Oh." The other said in a somewhat disappointed tone. He clearly had hoped he could befriend another aspiring scientist; one that wouldn't play the banjo while he was trying to study. "I assumed you would be working towards a future in science. Since the answer to my homework seemed to come so easily to you," his lips curled into a smile now as he grabbed his coffee and moved to sit on the edge of the bed.

Bill shrugged and took a long sip from his water as he tried to think of an answer. "I guess...it's just an interest of mine." For all he knew it could have been, especially considering he knew the answer without needing to think about it.

"Me too," Stanford said softly and Bill was relieved he did not continue the conversation any further than that.

"Bill...did you hurt your leg?" Stanford finally asked as he began to feel comfortable enough around the other to push further into what got the two of them into this situation.

Bill stopped chewing on his chips immediately and stared across the room at the other. "No," he answered bluntly as he tried to avoid eye contact. "It doesn't hurt."

"Have you...always had trouble walking?" He pushed. This earned a glare from Bill who felt no obligation to answer but also could not answer for he did not know himself. The pair sat in an uncomfortable silence for sometime, neither daring to look up at the other as they did.

Bill was the first to speak again. His voice was quiet and hesitant. "I can't keep my balance."

Stanford looked up at him again as he thought over what Bill had confessed. "Maybe it's neurological. Did you suffer any head injuries lately?"

"I...don't know."

"If you don't know is it possible you forgot? Have you suffered any memory loss?" He continued to question. Pushing himself off the bed, he moved over to Bill again. He placed his coffee on the desk and reached a hand towards his forehead, but it was quickly slapped away. Bill glared at him and lurched backward. "Sorry." Stanford said quickly and dropped his hand back to his side.

Bill nodded, acknowledging the apology before speaking, "I...well there are some holes in my memory." That was a severe understatement, however, the last thing Bill wanted was to be forcibly taken to the hospital.

"You need to get to the hospital—"

Bill rolled his eyes and cut the other off, "No."

"You—"

"Remember our deal?"

"What? You're hurt! The deal is off! You could have a severe concussion!"

"Interesting to see you can't keep your word," Bill said as he leaned back in his chair and examined his nails. Irritation lingered in his tone and his eyes shifted to stare up at the other.

"You are not going to guilt me. You are going."

"Calm down, Fordsie—" The letters fell from his lips and his breath hitched. The sound and shape that his mouth curved into when he pronounced the syllables felt so familiar yet he had certainly never met this man before. Stanford did not seem to acknowledge the nickname, other than scrunching his nose slightly the name registered in his mind. "I-I'm sure I'm fine. And if I get worse I'll let you take me. Keep your end of the deal and I'll keep mine," Bill proposed.

Stanford thought for a moment, weighing his side of the offer. "I'll keep the deal, but only if you let me help you."

"I already am letting you help. That is why you are her—"

"I mean help further. Tell me, do you have any bumps or gashes on your head? I would imagine you must if it's bad enough that you can't walk, however, I can't see any."

"Oh..." Bill began to feel his head. His fingers lacing themselves in his hair as he felt along his scalp however he did not notice any oddities until he felt an unevenness in the right side of his head, right above his ear. It was no bigger than the tip of his index finger and it did not have the texture of a fresh wound. Stanford must have noticed where his hand had stopped as he moved closer to glance at the spot.

"May I see?" He asked and Bill's hand fell away from the mark as he gave a short nod, still shaken by the discovery.

Stanford's hand pushed some of his blond hair out of the way to reveal the circular dent. It was not easily noticeable to the eye as it had been healed over and thoroughly cleaned by who he presumed must have been a medical professional due to how well the wound had been addressed. He started wondering what the source of the injury could have been until it clicked, "Bill...is there any chance that you may have suffered from a gunshot wound?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This au is mine, please don’t use it or claim it as your own. I put a lot of effort into making this story. If you really want to use it please ask me or Credit me. I will probably say it’s fine so long as I’m credited.

Stanford Pines continued to examine the area of the wound and was oblivious to the horror stricken look on the other's face. Bill's hands clenched around his loose fitting pants and his teeth pressed together with painful force. He was not sure if Stanford's assessment of the wound was right but if it was it certainly opened a door to new questions of who Bill was before his memory loss. It had not occurred to Bill that the other had been speaking until he caught the end of his sentence, "—cleaned and healed properly suggesting that you have already had this wound examined by a medical professional."

Bill snapped his head upwards to get a better view of the other, his jaw relaxing but only slightly. "You're saying this may not be the cause of my amnesia...that this wound has had enough time to heal?" He asked, releasing a hand from his pant leg to shakily lift to the spot above his ear.

"Precisely," Stanford confirmed "and....though we don't know the cause of your memory loss it is safe to assume that it was some sort of head injury—" He stepped away from Bill and moved over to the bed and folded back the burgundy covers before turning his attention to fluffing the pillows. "—Lucky for you, I have a lot of experience in taking care of someone with a concussion." He set the pillow back on the bed before returning to Bill's side. He reached out a six-fingered hand to help him stand. "You will need to rest and stay off your feet. I am going to need to stay here so I can wake you once every two hours."

Bill eyed the hand for a few moments before deciding that he did not want to be walked the few feet to his bed. Ignoring the hand, he twisted at the waist and turned to face the back of the chair. Gripping the wooden frame he pushed himself up to stand and began to use it like a walker to get to the bed. He made sure to stare directly at the other as he moved. He flopped onto the bed, bouncing as the springs adjusted to the sudden weight.

Bill had not anticipated the small grin that formed on Stanford's lips as he watched him. His pale hands reached for the chair and pulled it to himself, taking a seat. Bill watched him as he kicked off his shoes and moved to use the bed as a foot rest as he leaned back in the chair; the wood creaked as he did so.

"You're staying all night?" Bill asked in a plain tone.

"Until my six A.M class, yes," Stanford answered as he fished around the interior pocket of his coat, retrieving a worn book. It was an old astronomy book with a paperback cover that had been taped multiple times. Stanford had certainly reread the book multiple times.

"Is that a children's book?" Bill asked after a few moments of silence had passed, Stanford was already deeply submerged into his reading.

Stanford pulled away from the yellowing pages and turned his attention to the blonde who was lying comfortably submerged in his blankets. "No...though I did take it from my Middle school's Library," he confessed with a tiny smile. "It's very outdated, but it's interesting to look back on humanity's understanding of space." As he spoke, his smile grew and his eyes widened with enthusiasm. "It says Jupiter only has 9 moons, can you imagine how many more we will have found by the next century?"

"70"

"What?" Stanford paused his ramblings, staring at Bill with an expression of utter confusion. "What makes you believe there are 70 moons?"

"79 moons," Bill corrected, "and that's not how many it has, that's only how many have been found by the twenty-first century deadline." Bill was not sure where the information was coming from, but the idea felt familiar and true, like he had spent time pondering the topic before he lost his memory.

Stanford watch him for a moment, looking at the other as he began to theorize that Bill had not only lost his memory but his sanity too. At least, that was what Bill though he was thinking, but when the other's laughter began to echo throughout the dorm room it took the blonde by surprise. His free hand grasped at his side as Stanford leaned back in his chair, letting the laughter pour out of him. "I-" Fighting his way through laughter Stanford began to speak, "I guess—HA—I see why you would become a theater major. I thought you were serious for a minute there—HA!"

Bill was quiet, looking down at the blanket as a player with a loose thread. He did not know where the information came from, but he was certainly glad that Stanford thought it was a joke. When the silence began to feel uncomfortable, Bill forced a yawn and rolled over in his blanket so he could face the wall and not Stanford.

Bill was not sure how long he had been thinking over his circumstance before he fell into a restless sleep. Stanford woke him once every two hours just as he promised, but those moments of consciousness were all a blur that mixed together with the hordes of odd nightmares that found their way into every dark corner of his mind that night. In some ways he knew he was dreaming he just could not grasp any control over it. He felt as if he was watching a confusing and choppy movie but he could not escape the theater.

Everything he saw playing out on the screen was blurry, much like an opaque layer of glass divided him from his dreams. All that was visible to him were overly saturated colors and vague shapes. But the sound of the film was not foggy or distorted, it's volume not only shook the dark theater but he felt like his body was buzzing from the sound. The sound was a voice, the only thing within this dream that he could recognize. It was his own voice. But this time it had an echo that hid under every word. There were always sounds of response to everything he said, however, everything was being spoken in another language. It was not one he could put a name to but he could understand every word.

Bill did not gather much information from what was said. Mostly he was left listening to his own voice shout orders and the other voices refer to him as 'boss' or other variations of formality. Though, what did catch his attention were the number of times he heard small voices pleading for various things, but mainly for their lives. It was not with every change of the screen's color scheme that he heard this, but the pleading could be heard more than anything else.

It was not until he began to drift towards conscious that he heard a familiar voice speak in English, "My name is Stanford Pines, but you can call me...a friend."

Water droplets tapped on the vinyl window sill in a steady pattern as water flowed through the gutters sounding like a soft static. The room was dark and the curtains closed. Stanford was nowhere to be seen however traces of his company remained. A bottle of water along with a single serving package of cereal rested on the bedside table. Next to the breakfast were multiple books along with a newspaper.

Bill wiped the sleep from his eyes with a balled fist before pushing himself into a sitting position. He stretched out his arms and legs, his joints popping as he did so. Lowering his arms he looked over to the stack of books on the table, however, it was the newspaper that caught his attention. Curious to attempt to jog his memory by reading for current events, he reached for the paper.

He skimmed the front page, his eyes searching the more appealing articles and pictures first. He was surprised to find how long it took for him to notice the dramatic headline at the top of the page. In bold, black font it read "New information on the investigation into the body missing from a local funeral home." In the hopes that had found an article to entertain him, he followed the instructions that the small print read and turned to page 14.

When he had first turned to the page he was only expecting to receive a meager five minutes of entertainment but what he saw was far too interesting. On the page was a photo in black and white. The grainy image of a young man with dark skin and a blonde undercut was dated; displaying that the photo had been taken nearly a year ago. He had a cheerful grin on his face and was standing between too, only slightly older, gentlemen with similar features. From the clothing, Bill could guess that the photo was taken at some sort of graduation ceremony.

Bill's gaze shifted between the photo and the small mirror that hung across the room on the closet door. Blood rushing and head spinning, he began to entertain the thought that he may still be dreaming; he was awake. He subconsciously lifted a shaky hand to the healed wound above his ear as he looked down at the article. The letters twirled and blurred together until he was about to steady his sight. He began to read.

"—It was only two days short of a month ago that funeral home owner, Albert Riker found that his family owned business had been robbed of one of its clients. Twenty-Two year old William Shepard passed away on August 3rd, 1974 after receiving a fatal gunshot wound to the right side of his head during a hostage situation in a shop on E Main ST. His funeral was planned for August 7th but was postponed due to weather. The newly scheduled date was August 9th, however, while preparing for the service Mr, Riker found the body of the deceased was missing—"

Pulling the paper away from himself with shaking hands, Bill was unable to form a response. His murky golden eyes shone with disbelief and shock, wide and unblinking as they stared down at the impossible statement of his own death. He felt a quite, scratchy cry rip through his throat, one conveying anger rather than sadness. He knew he needed to keep reading, but he did not wish to do so. He was not sure what he could do with the information that the paper provided, it did not jog any of his memories, and turning himself in as the 'missing dead man from the paper' would only cause him to appear mad or worse, be displayed as some sort of miracle. 

Clenched hands crinkled the paper as they shook in loosely contained frustration. Shutting his eyes tight and taking a deep inhale, Bill tried to calm himself. His throat burned as a rush of cool air pooled in through his nose and as he exhaled he dropped the newspaper and reached for the water Stanford had left for him.

As he allowed the mellow-temperature water to soothe his scratchy throat he began to collect his thoughts. His mind buzzed with new information, yet none of it was familiar. The name did not feel right on his lips and the men standing with the young man in the photo were not his family. Even the young man in the photo; it was not him. It only looked like him.

Looking down at the paper in his lap, he did not attempt to read the rest of the article but instead folded the pages and tucked them into the crevasse of his bed and the cinder block wall for safe keeping. He did not want Stanford to find it, and he hoped the other had not already found out. 

"You haven't eaten," The statement was foggy as it pulled Bill out of his restless nap. Stanford stood over him holding a white plastic bag that was weighed down with a styrofoam take out box. His eyes, behind thick glasses, motioned to the unopened container of cereal and then back to the groggy blonde who had only bothered to open one eye.

"Forgot," was the only response Bill offered as he lifted a hand to brush the hair from his face.

Stanford rolled his eyes. "I brought you lunch. Please don't forget to eat it."

"Thanks...," Bill mumbled as he took the bag. He had not realized how hungry he was until he could smell the food Stanford had brought him. "Are you leaving again?"

"My next class is in two hours. I was hoping I could use your room too study?"

Bill shrugged and nodded as he fiddled with the squeaky styrofoam box. "Why don't you use your room?"

"My roommate is—"

"Annoying," Bill interrupted.

"No! No...he's just very social and loud at times. But he's my friend," Stanford corrected quickly in defense of his roommate. However, he got the feeling that the other was not listening as Bill began to stare off into space. He was still and deep in thought until Stanford whistled to catch his attention.

"Have we met before? Before last night?" Bill questioned, his head snapping to look at Stanford who now looked utterly lost.

"I guess it is possible we have seen each other around campus; you do look familiar, but no. We did not formally meet until yesterday evening," Stanford answered after a moment. Bill was quiet after that, turning his attention back to his food. He no longer looked at it hungrily but instead weakly picked at it. "Is everything okay?"

"Obviously not!" Bill snapped. "I don't know who I am, I don't know who you are, I can't walk, I don't know how I woke up in an empty room! And I-I don't want to sit in bed and have meals delivered to me by a stranger!" His voice echoed through-out the room and surely could be heard down the hall as well. Stanford was quiet, his eyes wide and his body still. He was not at all expecting such a loud outburst.

"Alright. Let's take this...one thing at a time," Stanford said slowly. "You woke up in an empty dorm...with no belongings. So first we could either find your things or we could find a way to get you new things."

"Not having belongings also implies I don't have money to buy new things, Sixer."

"Sixer?—never mind. Listen I can find some clothes for you to borrow. My roommate is about your size...that's a start."

Bill nodded slightly, pushing his food to the side and returning to laying on the bed; his actions clear sign that he was not feeling optimistic about Stanford's ideas.

"And I have some money set aside that I was saving for an emergency. We could use that and you can pay me back once you have your memory back and a way to get funds."

Bill nodded again, But Stanford could tell he was not paying much attention.

"I know you have a lot on your mind. So...just...try to see what you can remember and I'll try and get you some clothes," Stanford said with a heavy sigh as he turned to the desk to begin his studying.

"Thank you," He heard Bill's hardly audible response after a minute or so passed. Stanford's lips curled into a small smile as his eyes shifted to glance at Bill who was not laying face down with his head burrowed into the pillow. After a moment he turned his attention back to his classwork and the pair were left in a comfortable silence for nearly an hour.

"I want to try to walk again," Bill broke the silence, his voice muffled by the pillow. Stanford turned in his chair.

"Alright!" the brunette responded with enthusiasm and moved over the bed. As Bill moved to a sitting position with his legs draped over the bed Stanford held out both his hands to help him stand.

Frowning and pushing the hands away Bill spoke, "I don't want you to hold me. I want to stand on my own."

With a roll of his eyes the student moved his hands back to hold them out to Bill insistently. "I am not going to hold any of your weight. I am going to help you balance yourself," he clarified and with an annoyed huff Bill grasped his hands. His feet made contact with the cool floor as he began to pull himself up, instinctively placing more of his strength on gripping Stanford's hands than he had intended. However, once he was standing he was able to loosen his grip. His legs felt wobbly and too light as he prepared himself to take a step. He looked up to Stanford who in return gave him an encouraging smile. "If you start to fall I'll catch you. Let's just take this slow."

Bill nodded in response and took in a deep breath, holding it for a few seconds before exhaling. "Okay. I'm ready." As he said that Stanford took a step back, guiding the blonde. Bill began to move, his legs not feeling like his own as he commanded them. He took a shaky step forward until his foot made contact with the cold floor once again. Stanford paused to allow Bill to steady himself before taking another step back. Bill lifted his other foot and repeated his previous action, however, this time his foot landed on top of the other's shoe.

Stanford let out a small sound of laughter, causing Bill to snap his head up to glare at him before shifting all of his weight to press down on Stanford's foot. After the other stopped smiling and instinctively pulled his foot back, Bill was able to touch the floor again.

The two continued the process in silence until they were successfully making laps around the room. "You are doing good." Stanford said as they stopped in front of the window.

"Yeah...can I do it on my own now?" Bill said flatly.

"Maybe after I get back from class? You shouldn't be alone."

"Hey! I was able to get out into the hall last night!" Bill argued defensively. "I don't need someone supervising me!"

"You collapsed in the hall! You—" Stanford stopped himself and took a deep breath before continuing in a lower voice. "Remember our deal. You let me help you or I bring you to the hospital."

Bill was quiet at that, now knowing what it would mean if he was brought to the hospital. That someone would surely recognize him as some sort of walking corpse. "Fine...when will you be back?"

"Three hours. I'll bring you a change of clothes," He replied as he began to pack up his books.

Stanford was the last of his classmates to flood out of the room. He had taken his time to jot down the last of his notes and neatly tuck them into his bag. His friend and roommate, Fiddleford McGucket waited by the exit outside of the classroom as per their usual routine to walk back to their dorm together after their last class. Their final classes were in the same hall and ended five minutes apart. Fiddleford found that walking the long trek back to the dorm room with Stanford, opposed to walking alone, was worth the five minute wait in the hall.

When Stanford spotted him he was momentarily surprised, having forgotten that the other would be waiting. Despite walking together was a daily occurrence, his mind had been preoccupied. "F, hey." Stanford greeted, using Fiddleford's first initial just as he always did. As he reached him they began walking in the direction of the exit.

"Hiya Stanford!" Fiddleford responded. He held his cubics Cube in his hand twisting it without much thought as he looked forward at the approaching exit. "No class tomorrow...maybe we should do something tonight," he proposed, holding the door open for Stanford as they stepped out into the drizzling rain.

"Unfortunately I am already committed to other plans."

"Studyin'?" Fiddleford said with a heavy sigh. "You're always studin' I swears it's like you never do nothin' relaxin'"

"Studying can be relaxing!" Stanford said defensively. "And besides, that's not what I'm doing."

"Then what are ya doin'?"

"Helping a friend with something." Stanford answered vaguely as he now held the door open for Fiddleford. They were cutting through the arts building to avoid the rain which had become more than a drizzle since they started walking. "Which reminds me. Could I borrow some clothes?"

"Friend? Have I met them?"

"No...they are new," Stanford spoke carefully. He was not willing to give too much away, he did not know Bill well, and he did not want to cross a line by spilling his situation to Fiddleford.

"New?....It's the middle of the semester."

"Yes...well that's why I'm helping him. To get caught up. But—" Stanford scratched the back of his head as he lied "—he sorta lost his luggage on the plane here so I was wondering if you could loan him some clothes? You're about his size."

"Well I...I suppose I wouldn't want the fella to be wearin' the same dirty clothes....yeah I can spare some. You jus' make sure I get 'em back, alright?" Fiddleford agreed

"Of course." The pair moved through the rain now; Fiddleford held his bag over his head to stay dry while Stanford closed up his long coat. "Thank you."

"It's no problem," Fiddleford said as they began to pick up their pace to reach the dormitory. "Will I get to meet 'em?"

"Not just yet. But I'll introduce you two once he gets caught up on his work."

The pair dived into the building; water dripped from them and forming a puddle on the floor which earned them a sour look from a janitor. Stanford ignored the woman while Fiddleford gave her a sheepish smile and wave.

When Stanford reached Bill's room with a small Armful of clothing, he found Bill had moved himself to the desk. He was hunched over the surface, scribbling on the scratch paper that had been left behind from Stanford's studying. "You weren't supposed to walk," The brunette sighed disapprovingly as he set the clothing on the unmade bed. The other didn't respond but instead looked up from the desk to look at the drenched man who looked like he had bathed with his clothes on.

"Don't get anything wet."

"I know, I know. I need to shower to get the chill off of me. You should probably take one too before you get changed."

"No thanks. I don't want you holding me up while I shower."

"There are benches in each stall. Besides, I think as long as you don't stand you can handle it on your own," Stanford clarified with tinted cheeks, "I won't interfere unless it is absolutely necessary."

The blonde nodded and switched his gaze up to the clothes on the bed. He wrinkled his nose disapprovingly. Beige button ups and faded blue jeans sat folded neatly; he couldn't remember what clothing style he preferred but he was certain this wasn't it. "It's only until we can get you more. Which...maybe I can go to the store tonight and get something," Stanford said as he picked up on Bill's disapproving look immediately. He was not surprised, Fiddleford was not one for wearing anything particularly stylish. He began to pick through the clothing, finding a plain white button up and a pair of jeans that were not as faded as the two others.

"Please do. I don't care what you pick. Just no beige. And pants that aren't so...used would be nice," Bill said as he began to push himself into a standing position. His legs were still wobbly but he was able to stand on his own. Stanford moved to his side with the clothing draped over his shoulder. He placed a six-fingered hand lightly on the small of Bill's back, prepared to help him if he stumbled.

"The showers are only a few doors down," he said as they began moving forward. Bill took small and careful steps and Stanford kept the same pace. It took the pair ten minutes to walk the short distance, however, it was done smoothly with only a few stumbles but Stanford was able to catch the other every time. The showers were empty except for one in-use stall. The brunette pulled back the dark green plastic curtain and stepped away from Bill who could now lean against the cream-colored cinder block walls. "I'll set your clothes on the bench right here. I have to get my clothes from my dorm and will be back in a few minutes."

"Right," Bill responded as Stanford shut the curtain. Taking a seat on the cold and damp bench, Bill began to remove his clothing. After removing the sweatpants he set them in a lump on the bench and then began taking off his shirt. His joints creaked as he did so and his skin prickled in the cool air. Once undressed he did he best to toss the balled up clothing outside of the shower. Turning the water on, Bill was pleased to find that the water was already warm and he began to relax as the water pounded against his shoulders and back. As he ran his hands through his now wet hair, he was reminded of the injury on his head; the wound from the gunshot.

He tried to remember the moment he received it, but he couldn't. All he knew of the would was what was stated in the paper. With a frustrated huff he looked forward at a small mirror that hung on the wall; droplets of water now scattered on its surface. Oddly, it was placed directly across from another mirror that was behind Bill. He assumed that, while this was odd and unnecessary, it was done so students using a shower could get a view of their back or their head. He did not dwell on the reasoning for too long as he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror he was facing. He had a clear view of his back where gold lettering ran from shoulder to shoulder. It was written backwards, however, the mirrored image allowed it to be read easily.

Beautifully written in shimmering gold ink it read, "One way to absolve his crime. A different form, a different time."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you guys know I’m an idiot and accidentally posted the rough draft first instead of the edited version. Took me like 4 days to realize. Anyway here is the edited version. (Note posted 10-12-19)

A small, clouded mirror was no longer of any use as droplets of water and steam distorted its surface. Despite the surface's uselessness, widened eyes continued to stare into its murky depths, ignoring the sting of hot water that pooled into them. "One way to absolve his crime. A different form, a different time," the words scratched at Bill's throat as he muttered them aloud. With slow movements, he slid his hand over his right shoulder to trace along the marking. he was mildly surprised to find that the texture of the writing was not smooth but rather had a rough, indented texture. It felt more like a burn rather than a tattoo.

Bill was pulled from his thoughts by the abrupt sound of a heavy door opening and closing. Its echo caused his body to jolt in surprise momentarily. He comforted himself with the thought that it was only Stanford who was returning with his clothes, however, that was proven to not be the case when he heard three separate sets of footsteps.

"Anyways...I think it went okay," a deep. male voice seemed to be wrapping up a story as the presumed trio stepped into the room; he earned a noise of acknowledgment and a soft laugh from his companions. A short-lived silence followed as the three companions stepped into their respective showers before a new conversation could be heard above the running water.

"Did you guys hear about the dude in the paper. Ya know, the guy who was a student here?" one student began to speak.

"What about 'em?" another asked.

"I heard on the news that the cops suspect it was another student that's got the body. They are sayin’ that they were going to be interviewin’ the guy’s classmates."

"At least call him by his name," a new voice that was slightly higher than the others sighed, "Its sad what happened to Will. I had classes with him last semester...'

Cutting the water off, Bill subconsciously leaned towards the sound to better hear the conversation. The first voice spoke up again, this time with a slightly annoyed tone, "Right, so anyway. Rumors been going around that they are going to be doing random dorm checks, too. So i'm just saying, make sure your shit is hidden, Avery. I'm sure this whole 'dorm search' thing is just an excuse to get drugs and shit off campus."

As the conversation came to a close, the silence was once again pierced by the screeching sound of the heavy metal door as Stanford returned. He stepped into the shower next to Bill's and after a few moments of shuffling, Stanford spoke up. "Bill, are you still here?"

"Yeah..."

"Oh...alright. The water is off, I was worried you may have left..." Stanford said in a somewhat stiff tone before turning his own water on. Bill sat quietly on the bench, his thoughts hazy and scattered as he tried to comprehend the situation he now caught himself in. With washing himself being the least of his priorities, Bill reached for his towel. As he began to dry himself he glanced back to the mirror. With the corner of his towel he wiped away the fog, catching another glimpse of the shimmering gold that ran from shoulder to shoulder. He wondered if he had had the mark for sometime or if it was connected to the weird circumstances that made up his life. Unsettled by the writing, Bill pulled the towel around his shoulder, pushing it to the back of his mind for the time being.

For the moment, he focused himself on the less mentally-draining, however, more physical challenge of getting dressed. His joints popped as he twisted his waist in order to reach his borrowed clothing. Luckily he would not need to risk walking on the water-soaked floor to get them, but they were awkwardly placed just outside of the curtain. His fingers grazed the fabric at first, but after stretching himself further Bill was able to pinch the fabric between two of his fingers and pull it closer.

Sinking back into his former spot on the bench with the clothing now rested in his lap, Bill fought to regain the energy he would need to get dressed. Taking his time, he began to dress, sliding his white shirt over his shoulders and fiddling with the buttons as he listened to his surrounds. The other occupants were quiet and the room only echoed with the sound of water hitting tile. buttoning the last of the buttons, Bill began to pull on the rest of his clothes. But an unfortunate realization occurred to him. He had three enemies in this room; the three men who would be sure to recognize him.

Following this realization Bill knew he had two options; the first choice was to make his escape while the three men were still preoccupied in the shower, or he could wait them out. His first option was heavily weighed down by obvious faults, one of those faults being his inability to walk without collapsing. It was for this reason that he decided to wait out the trio was seemed to be the best option; at least that was as Bill viewed it. Keen on his choice to stay put, the blonde relaxed against the damp wall and as he waited, he allowed himself to be consumed by his own thoughts.

In particular, his thoughts stayed trained on the mark on his back.  _ 'A different form, a different time,'  _ that was what the words said. He contemplated whether or not to take these words a metaphor or if by some chance they could be literal. It was very obvious that his predicament had breached the line that divided the strange from the ordinary, so taking the words as a literal fact was not too far fetched in Bill's opinion.

"A different form...maybe—no...Well—that could mean that this body isn't—" He was abruptly taken away from his muttering by a familiar voice on the opposite side of the curtain. The tall, square silhouette of Stanford could be seen through the thin plastic.

"Bill are you—ah!" Cutting off the brunette, Bill pulled him into the stall with a strength that surprised them both.

"Close the curtain!" Bill said in a harsh whisper; his hand was still curled tightly around Stanford's wrist. The student gave him a confused, and somewhat troubled look before doing as he was told. He pulled the curtain shut, then turned back to Bill as he waited for some form of explanation. "Uh—let's wait to everyone else leaves. I don't want anyone to see me...injured," he lied.

Stanford did not seem completely convinced as he pulled his arm from the other's grip. "You are being ridiculous!" He whispered harshly. "You are embarrassed to be seen hurt but wouldn't being caught in the shower with someone be worse!?"

"Why would that be worse?" Bill said, genuinely confused by the point the brunette was trying to make.

"The implication...granted we are both fully clothed but—"

"Listen, Fordsie, I don't know what you are talking about. But trust me, I don't remember much but that doesn't make me an idiot. I know what I'm doing," Bill explained.

"I know what you are doing too. And it's ridiculous—" Stanford was interrupted when Bill's hand covered his mouth and the other showers became silent.

A light conversation started up between the three men as they collected their things and prepared themselves to leave. Bill left his hand over Stanford's mouth until he heard the metal door open and close. The room was silent until Stanford pushed his hand away "What the hell?"

"Come on, let's go."

"Are you going to explain what that was about?" Stanford grumbled as the pair began to leave the bathroom.

With a heavy exhale Bill glanced up at the brunette who was standing close; he kept his hand light on the small of his back to guide his movements. "Yeah...fine. I'll tell you, but try to stay quiet about it."

-

Stanford watched with furrowed brows as Bill lay on his stomach in bed; one arm squeezed between the bed and the cold cinderblock wall. After minutes of huffing and cursing Bill raised his arm, wielding a rolled-up newspaper in the air. "Got it!" He announced, which earned him a strange look from the brunette at his desk. Stanford stood with his lower back pressed against the corner desk, his arms folded across his desk as he now stared at the roll of paper with a tinge of disappointment.

"And...that is?"

At Stanford's question Bill's triumphant grin fell into a dreadful expression as the reality of what he would be explaining to the other weighed heavy on his shoulders. "I'm—" whole unrolling the paper and staring down at a picture of himself Bill spoke, "—dead"

"What was that?" Stanford asked as a breathy, joyless laugh fell from his chapped lips. He was certain that what he was hearing was only some bizarre exaggeration.

"I am dead," The blonde repeated, this time lifting his gaze to meet Stanford's.

With a snort Stanford shook his head and lifted his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. Another chuckle racked through his body, but this time it came from a place of frustration. With a deep inhale Stanford let his hand fall from his face. "That is...not the case. Whatever happened to you...it did not take your life, but I'm starting to think it took your sanity." His words were harsh and lacked the compassion or understanding that Bill had expected.

Tightening his features, Bill handed Stanford the paper. "Then explain this, brainiac." Reluctantly He accepted the paper; silence fell over the room as he read its contents. His bespectacled eyes lingered on the grainy, black and white image that was without a doubt the same man who was sitting in the bed, only this man was supposed to be dead. Not yet convinced, Stanford took a seat on the desk's chair as he continued to study the newspaper.

"William Shepard...," Stanford muttered aloud before glancing over to Bill. "I guess...William could be your legal name...No. No, this is absolutely ridiculous. He was in the funeral home for over a week,” he rambled. Bill huffed and slumped back onto the bed; as he allowed the student to torture himself in an attempt to find an answer that was not there.

"How long are you going to try to prove me insane? I'd like to eat something before my stomach starts to consume itself and I die again," Bill stared blankly at the rough and patchy ceiling, ignoring the side glance Stanford gave him.

"I don't think you are insane—" Stanford began as he ran his hand through his damp hair. "—you just haven't fully grasped reality since your injury..."

"Then I guess the entire police department is living in some distorted reality too! And the news! A-and literally everyone who reads that paper! Because I'm alive Fordsie! But that paper says I'm dead!" Bill said in a raised voice, throwing his body weight forwards as he moved from laying on his back to sitting with crossed legs.

"What you're saying isn't possible!" Stanford countered.

"I am proof that—AH!" Bill's cry was followed by his hand rushing to his back. Where the gold writing lay. it stung and burned, the feeling comparable to a cattle prod that was etching the words into his flesh. Shocked by the sudden outburst, Stanford lunged to his feet; the paper fell carelessly on the floor as he did so. The brunette was quick to reach for the spot that was causing the other such immense pain, however, his hand was quickly slapped away. The pain did not subside as the white cloth surrounding the writing began to blacken and char away in some spots; pin sized holes were now lined with blue embers.

"Shit!" Stanford exclaimed and began to fight the shirt off the other. He fought with the buttons before ripping them from their threaded home on the shirt, his first priority was to cease any spread of flame. "Sorry." He mumbled to the other who had abandoned his will to fight in favor of trying to withstand the unwavering pain.

At a loss for good ideas, Stanford quickly stomped out the small sparks that lingered in the fabric before returning his attention to Bill. His eyes searched the room as he considered water as his first option, however, when there was none in sight he quickly conjured a new plan. "Bill! Uh...hold your breath!" He said with not much confidence.

Bill gave him an odd look momentarily, but the pain forced him to comply. Inhaling deeply, he felt tears welling in his eyes. The pain was not diminishing. He watched Stanford pick up the shirt with singed holes lining the back, but that was the last thing he saw.

For the second time in only two days Bill regained his consciousness; only this time he knew where he was. He still lay on his bed, however, now there was a cold,damp rag draped over his back. Droplets of water fell from it, rolling down his rib cage and forming a puddle on the sheets. A blanket lay over his legs and he had been moved into a neater position on the mattress. To the left off his head was a small paper note that read:

_ 'Went to get first aid supplies. Be back soon. —Ford .P', _

Still feeling rather exhausted, Bill gave into his significant urge to bury his head into the plush pillow that Stanford had placed underneath him. Once submerged in the cool fabric Bill began to listen to the noises around him. The rain had disappeared, or at least it was not loud enough for Bill to hear from his muffled burrow in the pillows. Stubborn insects flew towards the dorm room light, their bodies thudding against the glass as they failed to pierce through the invisible barrier. It was after nightfall, Bill could tell that much from crickets that invaded his windowsill and he began to wonder how long Stanford had been gone, or more importantly, how long he had been asleep.

With low energy, Bill began work up motivation to move the rag from his back and investigate the surface of his wound. He was not sure what he was expecting to find but when his hand made contact with the surface he subconsciously borrowed his teeth into his bottom lip due to the stinging pain that followed. The damp, sticky surface clung to the dry skin of his fingertips and the stinging intensified as he pulled them away. Deciding that the wound was best left alone for the time being, the blonde placed the wet rag over its surface and let his hand fall to his side.

The opening of the door was an almost pleasant distraction from the pain as Bill craned his neck too look at the intruder. Stanford looked to him wearily as He clutched a brown paper bag to his side." I'm glad you're awake," he said in a quiet and even tone, however, his gaze did not rise to meet Bill's. Brown, bespectacled eyes remained set on the paper bag and its contents "I was really worried about you."

Bill did not answer; he did not know what to say. Stanford had not only watched him spontaneously catch fire, but he had also surely seen the cryptic writing that had been the tinder to the flame.

"I've never had to treat a severe burn like this before," Stanford began, "but I think I recall reading that honey can ease the pain. That was also the only useful supplies I could find at the corner store down the road. I can take a longer drive to get something more suitable once I know you're safe." Rolling his eyes, Bill began to push himself into a seated position, however, Stanford moved to stop him. "Stay put for a moment," he mumbled as he gently pushed down on his back to keep him in place. Bill's frown deepened at the action but he did as instructed.

Stanford was quiet, his silence contradicting what Bill had been expecting. He was certain that the student would have begun asking questions and spilling his theories the moment he stepped through the door, but he had yet to do just that. Stanford has instead decided to busy himself with the first aid supplies; he scrunched his nose at the feeling of the thick, sticky honey that clung to his hands as he opened its plastic container. He pulled the damp cloth away from Bill's back; he paused momentarily to eye the shining, pale burn. "How are you feeling...pain wise?" Stanford asked.

"Better... not good, but better," Bill replied, his voice muffled by the pillow.

"This should help," Stanford said as he began to apply the honey. Bill's back visibly tensed under his touch and he flinched away from the application the other was putting on his fresh wound. "Do you have any clue what triggered this?" Stanford asked after a few passing moments of uncomfortable silence that had fallen over the room.

Bill frowned deeply, however, Stanford could not see it. "I don't even know what state I'm in."

"That's fair...I'm sorry... maybe this tattoo is made of something odd. I've never heard of tattoo causing something like this, however, it is worth looking into," Stanford said. His response drawing an irritated huff out of Bill as he rolled over, ignoring the moderate stinging in his back as he did so.

Bill now lay on his back as he faced upward at Stanford who abruptly pulled his hands away from treating Bill's wounds. "Stop looking for logical solutions. I am dead. The answers we are looking for are not going to be found in some textbook. So keep your end of the deal and help me— ugh! Stop looking at me like that!" Bill shouted as he nudged the other way with his feet and sat up. Stanford was giving him the same frustrated and somewhat concerned look as earlier.

"You are not dead...," the brunette sighed as he began to pace though the cramped dorm room.

"Then who is it in the paper?"

"Well... it—" Stanford sighed as he leaned his back against the towering wardrobe, pinching the bridge of his nose again as he began to think. "I...I don't know, Bill. Maybe a relative? Do you remember if you had any siblings?"

"You man like an identical twin? No. I don't remember, but doesn't that seem a little far fetched?"

"You are the one who suggested we stop thinking logically! Besides, having a deceased identical twin whose body was stolen from the morgue is at least plausible—oh god what am I saying? It's ridiculous.," Stanford concluded, squeezing his eyes tight as he tensed with frustration

"It is ridiculous." Bill said smugly with a satisfied hum. "But it isn't ridiculous enough."

"Wha—" Stanford began to speak but was quickly interrupted by the other.

"I officially put a ban on all suggestions that exist within the laws of physics as we know them. What we are up against clearly isn't bound by them."

The room was silent for a moment, however, the tension had fled and the air felt light and breathable. Bill started at the brunette with wide, almost excited eyes as he watched a tiny grin form on the other's lips. "I'm not saying I believe you, but if there is any truth to what you are suggesting it's worth looking into. And even if there is no strangeness outside of the laws of physics going on here, I could at least investigate what caused your tattoo to heat up the way it did."

"Great! And you will keep me hidden if the cops showed up?" Bill said hopefully and Stanford's smile dropped.

"What?"

  
  



	4. Chapter 4

A static of waves clouded Bill's eardrums as the audible vibration of pink noise shook throughout his dreamscape. What surrounded him could only be described as pink, crystalline bubbles. They lined the walls of this realm and inside each sharp, glimmering surface, Bill could see himself looking back. At first glance it appeared to be like a reflection; mirroring each of his movements. But, the longer he stared at an individual frame, they seemed to have a life of their own.

Bill stared deep into his own reflection, and it seemed normal. It was an unwavering portrait of himself that would only move as he did, but then it changed. The reflection smiled; it was a kind and warm smile. One that held no malicious intent but instead welcomed him as it placed its hand against the surface.

"And you are the one they gave my body to? Interesting," The reflection said, intrigued and somewhat delighted. The voice was an unplaceable tone as it came from each surrounding bubble. The same voice rung from each but the frequencies differed from high to low. Some were so low, so frighteningly and inhumanly low. But, contrary to those were soft, kind and childlike voices. "Maybe I shouldn't say 'my body' You are not me anymore. You are the—" as the voices continued they began to distort. Flickering in and out of high and low frequencies in unison. All would be high one moment and the next they would shift into a low, monstrous tone. "—are the—a-are the—" the voices became almost robotic. Bill opened his mouth to speak, but the words would not form. Instead they locked themselves in his throat and shielded off any oxygen from entering. He began to wheeze, pulling at any oxygen he could as the voices continued,"—are the beast with—one—one—one—one e-e-e-eye" the voices skipped like a record.

And then Bill Cipher woke up.

He dove out from the bedsheets that had wound themselves tightly around his head, cutting off any breathable air from his windpipe as he slept. His startled awakening had pull Stanford Pines from the depths of sleep as well. His fluffy brunette hair was all that could be seen sticking out of the red comforter as the two uncomfortably shared the bed. Both slept opposite of each other and Bill had surely woken Stanford up multiple times that night with a swift kick to the face.

Stanford had insisted that he stay the night Incase another incident were to occur, however, Bill was sure that Stanford had been sleeping slumped over the desk last he had scene, he assumed the other had moved during the night. With an annoyed groan Stanford twisted to face the wall, trying to ignore the other in favor of sleeping in that Saturday morning.

"Sixer, I'm awake," Bill said after a few passing minutes of consistent silence. Stanford was only just beginning to drift back to sleep when he was interrupted by the blonde.

"Mmf.." Stanford hummed as he shuffled underneath the covers. His eyes squeezed tightly shut as he tried to avoid the intruding daylight that crept through the fog covered window. At his refusal to wake he felt Bill's feet press against his lower back where his shirt had been raised from his tossing and turning. The digits on his back felt uncomfortably cold and the longer he lay with his eyes closed the harder Bill would press into his skin. Stanford hissed out in pain and sat up with a huff and said, "Alright, alright! Quit that! ...I don't like to be touched," he added.

"Then why did you get in my bed?" Bill argued in a harsh tone as he sat up with his back pressed against the headboard. His arms were now crossed over his chest.

"I didn't want to fall out of the chair for a fourth time," as Stanford spoke he began to stretch, his shoulders popping as he did so.

Bill watched him with a board expression, waiting for him to finish his needless stretching before he spoke, "Your face is bleeding." At the other's words, Stanford lifted a hand to his face, finding a thin cut lathered in dried blood.

"It's not bleeding anymore...must be from one of the five times you kicked me in the face," The brunette grumbled as he began to move from the bed. His sock covered feet met the tile floor that was cold from the early morning chill. Bill watched him as he shuffled to the desk. He took a seat at the desk chair as he began to put on his shoes. "You moved so much in your sleep...like you were having a nightmare. Anyway, I'm going to go out. Get breakfast and buy you some necessities. Are you coming?"

Bill was quite as he thought over his answer; he shuffled his legs under the covers, testing their movements. "And if someone recognizes me?"

"You can wear my coat. It's big enough to cover you, and just try not to look at anyone."

"And if I trip and fall that won't catch anyone's attention at all," Bill said sarcastically.

"Judging by how many times you kicked me last night your legs seem to be working much better."

"Fine I'll go. But I hope you can run from the cops and carry me at the same time," Bill grumbled. He slowly pulled himself to his feet, finding his balance easier than he had in the past. "And buy me a good breakfast."

-

Water ran down the streets and into the storm drain, carrying with it stray trash and leaves that had lay in the way of its path. The sun had made its appearance that day, but the autumn chill that lingered in the air had done nothing to dry up the puddles that filled the dips in the pavement. The wind tousled hair of both Bill and Stanford who now found themselves strolling down the city sidewalks in the chill bitten air. Without a coat to cover himself Stanford could feel the cold sting on his fingers and nose like needles. Occasionally the brunette would stare down at Bill with an envious glance. The blonde strolled casually in the thick coat that shielded him from the elements; he knew well of the other's misery but instead of sympathy he found humor in the other's pain.

Bills gate was smooth for the most part. He had yet to trip up in his movements after the initial few blocks. It seemed his legs were somewhat calibrated and now following his commands with precision. He walked with confidence now, swaying slightly as he moved with an aura of a proud and arrogant god. Stanford frowned at this and began to speak, "you are going to attract attention."

"Attention? For what?" Bill asked with too much innocence.

"Walking like that."

"Walking without falling?" Bill frowned and stopped in his tracks, turning to the other.

"No. You are drawing attention to yourself."

"No I'm not—" he crossed his arms. "—No one else is looking. I'm only drawing your attention. Now let's get going. You are supposed to get me breakfast," Bill began walking again, leaving Stanford stunned in his place as he watched the other move ahead. He was quick to catch up, only now a tint of red coated his cheeks that was not from the cold.

"What are you in the mood to eat?"

Bill thought for a moment, his tongue poking out between his lips as he mulled over his options. "Pancakes," He said with a hum, looking up at the other as he spoke.

"Pancakes it is then," Stanford responded with a smile, however, his attention was pulled away as he caught a glimpse of a newspaper that had been left to soak in a shallow puddle. A picture of Bill could just barely be made out on the decaying paper. "I was thinking...once we get back I may do some poking around...find out what happened to you before you 'went missing'...well if we get home before evening."

Bill pauses but only for a moment before giving Stanford a sour look. "Poking around how? Exactly?"

"I was considering finding some of your old classmates and—"

Bill cut him off with a sharp remark, "and interrogate them?"

"No! I was only going to ask some questions!"

"Won't do any good! Stanford...say, do you believe that dreams hold any truth to them?"

"Scientifically speaking, there is no hard evidence of dreams having any significance outside of the psychological. Do I believe that dreams say something about a person? Yes. But—"

"I did not ask for a lecture! Geez! for a brainiac you sure are an idiot," Bill huffed. "Well let me speak scientifically; I have a theory. Theory being, I am not William Shepard. But I am inhabiting his body."

"That isn't scientific! It isn't logical!"

"Neither is your arrogance, Sixer!" Bill snapped at they stepped through the glass door of a small diner, the bell above chiming as the door closed behind them. Stanford relaxed at the warm temperature that began to sooth his reddened skin.

"At least explain your theory," Stanford said as they settled in at a corner booth, looking over the two laminated menus that were already at their table. Bill pushed his aside and leaned back against the cushioned seat, already knowing what he wanted.

"I had a dream. And I believe in that dream I was speaking to William Shepard. Who referred to me as a one eyed beast...," he paused for a moment too look to the waitress who was approaching their table. He did not look at her after the initial glance, instead he stared down at the plastic, navy blue table cloth.

Stanford offered her a smile as she asked for their beverage orders in a kind voice that she used with customers. Bill grit his teeth as he listened to her speak, her kind tone sounded genuine but underneath Bill could hear her judgment and venom laced thoughts. His head ached with a flood of information as he suddenly new facts about this women seemingly from only hearing her speak. He knew her name, he knew her fears, he knew her dreams of being a hairdresser were crushed when she had a child and dropped out of school so she could work two jobs to support it. He knew all the good she had done and he knew all the wrong. He knew who she hated and who she loved. That her youngest son was her favorite and she viewed her oldest as a burden. His squeezed his eyes tight as he processed the overflowing information that invaded his thoughts until he was pulled from its depth by the familiar and almost homelike voice of Stanford. "Bill....Bill are you listening? What do you want to drink?"

"Oh...uh...water."

"Alright I'll have that right out to you!" The waitress said kindly.

When she was gone Stanford spoke again, "so your dream. He said you were...a one eyed beast? What could that even mean," a small laugh fell from his lips as he said that.

"Heh...," Bill laughed hollowly. "Probably nothing," Bill said and began to ignore Stanford instead focusing on the other customers in the diner. He quickly concluded that this action was a misstep as he felt a white, blinding pain in his temple as the thoughts of the other patrons flooded his mindscape with a ruthless need to be known by him. He grit his teeth and not pain, but anger took over his expression. He now knew every pointless, agonizingly boring fact about the other patrons. Birthdays, anniversaries, favorite colors, sexual preferences, they all became known to him and slipped into every open crevasse of his mind. He pulled his attention from them, causing the information to stop flowing for a moment.

That is when he noticed Stanford watching him. Concern washed over his features as he watched the blonde with curiosity. "Are you not feeling well?"

"Fine. Just a headache," Bill responded and turned his attention to Stanford. He was relieved but somewhat curious to find that Stanford's thoughts did not come flooding at him as well. When he looked at Stanford, the room fell silent. Comfortably silent.

Relaxing in the silence, Bill let the tension in his shoulders fall and tapped his fingertips on the table, focusing his attention in the silence that radiated from the other. Despite not being able to hear his thoughts, he could still tell Stanford was thinking; he even seemed to be deep in thought. Perhaps it was that he was deep in thought that Bill could not hear his conscious. The thoughts he heard from the other diners were mindless blabber at their best and would likely only be a thin, top layer of the human consciousness. But the man who sat at the other end of the table was not one to engage with senseless thought. He was a man of science. A man of logic. He could not think without overthinking. This is at least how Bill chose to view him.

"Headache? Is your wound troubling you?" Stanford asked as he reached for his drink that the waitress had placed on the table a few moments ago, but stepped off to the side to bring some napkins to a table with a messy toddler without taking the rest of their order.

"It's fine. Just loud in here," Bill responded with disinterest.

Silence was to be a scarce pleasure that day, as the overbearing stench of human thought followed Bill throughout the maze-like corridors of the shopping mall that Stanford took him to after they had finished their meals. It was because of this torturous noise that Bill stayed close to his six-fingered companion; he was able to quickly prove his theory that Stanford radiated a welcoming silence. "What about this?" Stanford held up another shirt. This one, much like the others, was a lifeless tan button-up with a collar that would surely feel suffocating. With an unimpressed sigh Bill shook his head.

"Let's look over there," The blonde suggested, his index finger pointing to the colorful arrangement of clothing in the women's department.

"Bill...that's the women's section. You can't—"

"I'll wear men's clothes as soon as it starts to look more like clothes and less like something meant to scare crows away from crops," he said as he gestured to a mannequin that was raised up on a paddestoel. A smile pulled at his lips as he noticed the similarities in its outfit compared to Stanford's.

Ignoring the insult, Stanford spoke, moving towards the women's clothing section as he did so "Fine but I don't exactly know how the sizes work so you will need to try things on."

When they reached the dorm room late that evening Bill's legs were shaking with exhaustion and his feet were numb under his weight. He collapsed backwards onto the bed with a relieved huff, kicking his shoes across the room. Night had fallen only a short time before but the campus was loud with bustling students who were desperate to enjoy their Saturday night before they would be forced to return to the storm of work that was due this coming Monday. However, in spite of the darkness outside it was still early, thirty-two minutes until seven in the evening to be exact.

"I'm going back to my dorm. See you tomorrow," the brunette informed as he finished tucking the clothing and various necessities into the desk and wardrobe respectively. His comment caught Bill off guard for the blonde had become so adjusted to his company in only a short amount of time. He frowned deeply at the thought of being alone for the rest of the evening; he was slightly frustrated that the only person who knew was leaving him.

"It's still early," was all he uttered as Stanford closed the wardrobe cabinet.

"I'm getting together with some friends...uh you can come if you are feeling up for it, though we are playing dungeons, dungeons, and more dungeons and I don't know if you would be interested—"

"I want to," Bill spoke firmly, surprising himself with his own willingness to be around strangers. He supposed his hatred for being alone, cramped inside a nearly empty room outweighed his hatred for socializing.

"I...well okay. Are you certain you won't be bored?" Stanford admitted with a hesitant tone. While he knew that his friends would not mind, they ran the risk of something unexplainable happening with witnesses around. It would be preferable it Bill's nasty habit of catching fire could remain a private phenomenon. "And more importantly, what if someone recognizes you?"

"Oh...that's right," Bill said and slumped further into the mattress. "I guess I'll stay hidden in this room until I die...again."

"Don't act like that," Stanford said as a smile tugged at his lips. "You were out the entire day. We don't want to overdue it. Especially considering you only just regained your ability to walk."

Bill did not offer a response as he pulled off the scratchy jeans he had been wearing and climbed underneath the blankets. He was still for some time, his eyelids closed but his eyes still shifting back and forth underneath. His mind had wandered off and it was clear on his face that he lost interest in what Stanford had been trying to explain. A puff of air left his nose and his eyes slowly opened to reveal that his pupils had shifted into thin slits for only a moment before inflating back to their usual round; and then he spoke. "Have fun with your make believe, IQ! I'm more of an interdimensional chess guy, myself."

"Stanford. Staaaaanford—" Fiddleford sung as he waved a hand in front of the other's face. Stanford was silent as he sat with crossed legs on the DM's dorm room floor. "—it's your roll. Are you alright?" He asked with worried eyes. His friend has been dipping in and out of their game, often forgetting the setting or his turn. He had asked their DM to repeat himself on more than one occasion that night.

"Right...sorry. I'm fine," Stanford replied shortly and reached for his dice.

"I doubt that!" The DM laughed. Hue, who had only recently joined their small, six person DD&MD group a few months beforehand had been their DM this campaign and was embarrassingly bad at it. Not to mention Stanford found him incredibly obnoxious. "You aren't tellin' me off for nothin' yet! You mud' be sick or somthin'!"

"I'm fine," Stanford responded with a tired expression.

"C'mon I got somthin' that will cheer ya up!" Hue announced before pulling himself off the floor with a grunt. He hobbled over to his closet as he continued to speak. "So what I didn't tell y'all is that I used to have a roommate. A weird fucker, he was. Dude worshiped some big pink god," he continued to explain as he shuffled through a cardboard box on in his cupboard. He had earned the attention of the others as they stared at the worm notebook he had retrieved with curiosity. The wire bound black notebook had been torn and crumpled and Hue only added to its destruction as he tossed it in Stanford's direction. "You like weird shit, right, Ford? Have it. The owner isn't comin' back for it that's for sure! Now let's play the damn game!"

After the game started up again and his turn had ended, Stanford reached for the book. He shuffled through the yellow-tinted pages until he landed on a beautiful, detail focused, drawing of an axolotl. It had been done in black ink that was solid and pure, seemingly absorbing every drop of light and swallowing it deep into its depths. The drawing opened a pit of dread in Stanford stomach, however, it was alluring and he lacked the composer to look away. He welt weak and insignificant under its gaze. And then he noticed the writing, in beautiful handwritten script it read, "a different form, a different time."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is this the Halloween special? Yes it is. But it’s also a real chapter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING FOR ALCHOL USE, DRUNK CHARACTER, AND DRUG MENTION.
> 
> *Please no one read this part  
{u r gay   
U right  
I’ll leave this in  
Put it in italics so no one thinks its a real part of the story  
But it is  
Who am i then  
Ghost of Christmas future  
Oh man that is spooky  
I’ll put this in chapter notes  
Okie dokie}*
> 
> Dedicating this chapter to my good friend who went in and corrected my grammar errors because I was very sleepy when I write this.

Tinged-yellow pages contrasted dark, murky pools of ink that coated the lined pages of the notebook that Stanford now admired in the privacy of his dorm room. His roommate, Fiddleford, had left to wash up before bed only a few moments after they had returned from their drawn-out, tortuous game of dungeons, dungeons, and more dungeons, leaving Stanford to himself. Among the blots of ink was a single line of writing. The penmanship of which was sharp and crude; the width and size of each pen stroke was inconsistent and the words were slanted in a way that suggested the writer did not have the pre-set lines of the notebook in mind. The words written were in backwards English. It read, 'ltoloxa eht esiarp!' In all lowercase lettering.

Calmly, Stanford traced his hands over the dark ink. It was a solid and blemishless black that resembled a starless night sky or the depths of the ocean too deep for the sun’s touch to reach. It amazed him, and he followed every line, every drop and spec of ink with peak curiosity. He was so absorbed by the darkness that he was unaware that his mouth had began to move and form the shapes of the words on the page. "L—" he began to speak aloud, "T-O-L-O-X-A eht esiarp," his voice was low as he read from the page. As he spoke the ink began to feel greasy under his fingers, but he had yet to notice, still captured by the uniqueness of the ink. It was not until the ink began to pop and sizzle that he ripped his hand away. As it burned, the ink began to emanate a nauseating scent. Accompanying the scent was the feeling of inhaling the polluted air of a forest fire. An odd, smoky flavor coated Stanford's tongue and his throat began to burn. 

As Stanford was able to look away from the pages he saw the walls of his room twist and curve in a way that caused him to tilt his head, much like a dog who was trying to get a better view of a peculiar object. And then Stanford could not see the room anymore; he could not see anything but that solid black ink. 

"Stanford," a voice echoed as it bounced from invisible walls. But the voice did not seem to be directed to him; it seemed to be coming from a distant conversation, like he was eavesdropping. In the distance he could make out a block of light. It was like a doorway in the distance, a perfect rectangle. Without much consideration, Stanford began to move forward. The air around him buzzed with electricity, tingly at his fingertips and prickling at his cheeks. He felt like he was treading through a quick-paced river, the current pushing him away from his destination. However, he ignored the feeling and endured the pushing force. 

During his trek to the distant light, Stanford was left to wonder if he was even moving; the darkness that surrounded him began to distort his perception of distance. Despite his doubts, Stanford continued to move towards the doorway until he was only a short distance away. It was covered in a glaze of fog that allowed light, but no images, to pass through. Reaching out into the darkness, Stanford's fingertips brushed through the surface of the fog, it was then that he heard the voice of his roommate. 

"This thing is dangerous," Fiddleford's voice was shaken as he spoke. Stanford interest was peaked at his friend's words and he moved closer to the doorway, about to take a step inside when a hand grasped the collar of his shirt.

"You are not permitted to see that," Informed a kind and soft voice. With a startled gasp, Stanford's back tensed and he twisted on the heels of his feet. In front of him was Bill, however, his smile was relaxed and calm and his movements seemed to be much more animated as he swayed and rocked on his heels. This man did not act like the Bill he had come to know, however, Stanford wondered if he knew Bill at all. 

"Bill?" Stanford questioned which provoked some laughter from the smaller of the two.

"William," he corrected. "Last name is Shepard."

Stanford studied the other for a moment before he decided to speak again, "You never corrected me before."

"You've never spoken to me before," The young man who called himself William responded as he circled the other like a hungry animal circles it's prey, however, his expression and tone of voice was anything but predatory. "Only this body."

"What do you mean?" Stanford said irritably. 

"Not telling."

"What?"

"I can't tell you what I mean," William clarified, his smile fading momentarily. "But...you may already have all the information you need."

"Just what does that mean—"

"Praise the axolotl!" 

With a gasp, Stanford woke up with his face pressed into the cold, hard tile flooring. The wire spine of the notebook pressed into his stomach as it lay under him. As he continued to cough and gasp for air, his throat burned and the lining of it felt sticky and clung together. Pushing himself from the floor, he moved to a sitting position. With shaking hands he picked up the book, his eyes immediately finding some writing in silver ink that lined the bottom, 'property of William Shepard'

-

Leaves scuffed across the concrete covered ground as Stanford moved through the campus courtyard. It was a relatively cold Sunday morning and the dark storm clouds had returned to coat the sky, however, it had yet to start raining. Clutching a plastic bag in one hand, Stanford used the other to hold his jacket closed and tight around him. As he reached the glass doors of the dormitory, he peeled his hand away from his jacket to open them. 

He did not remember much of his journey up the flights of stairs and down the hall to dorm room C13; his body moved on autopilot as his mind buzzed with questions concerning the night before. Inside of his coat was the same notebook that he spent his entire night staring down, trying to work up the nerve to study it some more until he eventually fell into a dreamless slumber. He now pondered questions concerning William Shepard. Stanford was certain he could find answers in the book, but he was admittedly afraid to even open it.

"Where were you?" Bill questioned irritably the moment the door to his room began to open. "You said you'd be back after your make believe!"

"I promised no such thing, besides...something came up," Stanford said as he tossed the plastic bag full of various snack foods on the bed. Seeming to forget his previous annoyance, Bill reached for the bag and began to rifle through its contents. 

"What came up?" Bill asked casually as he pulled out a bag of nacho flavored chips. Opening the bag, he smelled the contents wearily as he questioned the flavor.

"This," Stanford said as he removed the notebook from his jacket and showed it to Bill who reached for it curiously.

"And what's so special about it?"

"It was given to me by the former roommate of William Shepard," The other elaborated, causing Bill to set his bag of chips aside and began to take more interest in the book he was holding. He began to open it but was quickly stopped when Stanford grabbed it from him. "Be careful with it...," he warned.

"I was only going to look inside, not set it on fire."

"Yes well... didn't you mention a dream you had in which you spoke to William?" Stanford asked, which earned him a slow and confused nod from Bill. "What did he act like...in your dream?"

Bill thought for a moment, popping a chip in his mouth as he did so. "Hmm...he was...happy? No not happy...maybe just well he seemed calm or maybe energetic?"

"Those contradict," Stanford pointed out which caused Bill to shoot a glare in his direction.

"I know that! Fine he just seemed calm then! Better?"

"A little," a smile pulled at Stanford’s lips as he took a seat at the desk chair. "He was the same in my dream too...but maybe I would just describe him as content and energetic? Similar enough."

"Wait...you had a dream to?" Bill asked as spare chip crumbs to fly from his full mouth, causing Stanford to cringe at his poor manners.

"Yes, after reading out of this book."

Bill gave him and odd look before glancing back to the book, "you're saying that book made you have a dream about him?"

"Yes...I know it sounds strange but..." Stanford sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "I believe you. Well...I'm open to believing you. I'm willing to entertain the idea that...somehow...this body was originally William's but now by some impossible means belongs to you. Which leads to another big question." Stanford said, feeling annoyed and defeated by the pseudoscience of the paranormal. He felt like he was a child again, chasing after the jersey devil.

"Which is?" Bill questioned, flopping back onto the bed and turning his head to the side to face Stanford. 

"Who are you?" Bill was taken aback by the other's question. It was something he had been wondering and growing more concerned about too. He bit his bottom lip and shut his eyes as he began to think, combing through his thoughts for any clues. 

"I don't know...," His voice was small and cracked under the hopeless feeling that bubbled in his chest. "I don't know who I am." 

Watching Bill with genuine concern, Stanford moved to his feet. The other's eyes were still closed but he could hear the other's slow footsteps as he moved to the bed. The mattress dipped as he took a seat. Slowly, Bill opened one eye and looked up at the calm expression the brunette was offering him. "That's alright...," he said in a comforting tone, however, lingering underneath was a hint of worry in his words, "I'll help you."

While not completely convinced, Bill forced a smile but was quick to change the topic in favor of pushing his worries aside. "Halloween is tomorrow, right?"

"What?" Stanford had trouble adjusting to the sudden change in conversation, especially when there was still so much to discuss.

"Since I have no memory, this is kind of like my first Halloween. So what are we doing?"

"We?"

"Yes, we! You're my friend, aren't you?" Bill said as he sat up, his legs pulled into a criss-cross position. He looked up at Stanford expectantly. 

"Well, Halloween is on a school night. I'll have class early the next morning...," he explained, much to the disappointment of the other. 

Bill huffed and rolled his eyes "Just don't go to your early morning class."

"I'm not skipping," Stanford responded firmly.

"Come on, Sixer! You seem like the type to never miss a class so you certainly have some absences to spare! Surely there will be some sort of party we can go too. I'm tired of being cooped up in here."

"Bill, I hate parties."

"Have you ever been to one?" Bill asked skeptically, doubting that as a student so dedicated to his studies that Stanford world ever pull away from his books long enough to attend any high school parties.

"Yes. When I was sixteen. Me and my brother went to—I left early," Stanford answered shortly and looked off to the side.

"That was years ago. Plus! I'm certain college parties are much more entertaining," Bill countered and gently placed a hand on the other to turn his head before squishing his cheeks with his fingers and thumb.

Stanford shook his head, releasing himself from the other's grasp and with a defeated sigh, he spoke, "Fine. I'll consider it."

"Perfect! And I'll pick the costumes!"

"Bill, I said I'd consider it. Don't get ahead of yourself."

"Too late." Bill grinned brightly and stood up from the bed, stretching his arms out above his head and standing on his toes as his joints popped. "Now go wait outside."

"Why?"

"We need costumes and I need to get dressed so we can go shopping."

"We are are going now?" Stanford frowned.

"Yes now go stand outside."

-

"I have not worn a costume since I was thirteenth." Stanford admitted as they stepped off the bus and onto the rain-soaked sidewalk. Bill wore a brightly colored, wool poncho whIle Stanford wore a beige, winter coat. The pair walked side by side, grateful that the rain had simmered down to a drizzle within the span of their roughly twenty minute bus ride. "I'm still a little unsure about letting you pick my outfit though."

"Why? I was going to get us matching ones," Bill said defensively as Stanford held open the door to the Halloween shop.

Stanford groaned at the idea but smiled fondly down at the other "matching costumes? Why?"

"So we won't be tempted to abandon each other. We will need to keep the other half of our costume with us," Bill explained, as he moved throughout the isles, looking for something that would either involve a lot of makeup or a mask to hide himself. 

"I wasn't going to abandon you, Bill." Stanford replied as he absentmindedly messed with the legs on a poseable, fake spider on a nearby shelf. The blonde glanced in his direction with a small smile that went unnoticed by the other. "I used to wear a matching costume with my brother every year as a child. We were twins and our mother would make us costumes. They always went together."

Bill hummed as he flipped through a rack of costumes "I think it's strange when parents make their twins match. Grouping them together as one person doesn't seem like good parenting to me."

"I don't believe that was her intention." Stanford said dismissively.

"What about you go as Frankenstein and I go as the bride of Frankenstein?"

"If I'm going as Frankenstein, why wouldn't you go as Frankenstein's monster? Or do you just want to wear a dress?" Stanford questioned with a small smile.

"Absolutely!...but I also I forgot that Frankenstein was the scientist and not the monster."

"Wait. Were you—" Stanford began to speak but Bill quickly cut him off.

"You would look better as a scientist anyway."

-

"Do I look dead enough?" Bill asked as he peeked his head around the corner, knowing that Stanford would be waiting for him in the hall. As previously promised the brunette was leaning against the cinderblock wall of the corridor, already dressed in his costume. A small laugh escaped himself at the irony of the question as he pushed away from the wall. He faced Bill to admire his costume, reaching to adjust the comically large black wig.

"With the hair you are finally the height of an average twenty-two year old," he smiled, earning a disingenuous glare from the other. "I'm joking," Stanford clarified and raised his hands defensively, "you picked a good costume," He admitted as he let his hands fall back to his side. "I don't think we need to worry about anyone recognizing you." Taking a step back, Stanford studied the other's costume until he landed on the heels Bill had insisted on wearing. "It's a five minute walk to the party," Stanford's smile had dropped now as he noticed the fault in Bill's costume. "You have only recently regained your balance, are you sure wearing those is a good idea?"

"I'll be fine, Sixer," Bill defended.

Rolling his eyes, Stanford pushed the worry aside as they began walking down the hall. They had made sure to close and lock the dorm room, leaving the notebook safely on the desk. 

Staying close to Bill's side, Stanford monitored the other's balance and placed his hand on his back just as he had done when Bill was still struggling to walk. The action did not go unnoticed by Bill, however, and while he did not find it necessary, he did not speak out against it and instead took comfort in knowing the other was looking out for him.

As they stepped outside the dormitory they could hear blaring music from the party that was only a block away. Stanford cringed at the invading noise that he knew was sure to cause a throbbing headache if he did not remedy the assaulting sound with the distraction of alcohol once they reached the party. 

"Let's decide this now," Stanford began, being the first to speak after a few moments of comfortable silence. "are we going to drink at all—"

"Yes!" Bill answered quickly, interrupted the other with his enthusiasm. "I think I uncovered some new information about myself. I love parties," A wild grin stretched across his cheeks as he spoke.

"We aren't even there yet?" Stanford said skeptically; he was slightly taken aback by the other's excitement.

"But it seems familiar..." Bill said thoughtfully as he stared up at the sky; it was clear that he was trying to jog his memory. "Maybe this will help me remember something."

"Or maybe you are just going to get drunk and I'll have to carry you back to your dorm," Stanford sighed, as he made a mental note to not get anymore than tipsy In the case that he was left in charge of looking out for the other.

"That has yet to be seen," Bill responded as a smirk pulled at his lips and his eyes shifted to look at Stanford.

As the party came into view, it became obvious that this was far from a small gathering; cars lined the street side and various groups of college students filed in and out of the front door. Stanford's glanced to Bill who was looking towards the house with intrigue, his attitude towards the night's plans opposite of Stanford's weary one. "Ready?" Stanford asked and without a verbal answer Bill began to move towards the entrance. The other followed him closely.

Stepping inside the pair was hit by a wave of senses, one of which was the overbearing stench on marijuana, booze, and sweat, however, the suffocating smell was not what caused Stanford to question every decision he made up until this point, but the sea of drunk college students certainly was. Over the sound of booming music, Stanford was not aware that Bill had been speaking until he was suddenly pulled through the wall of people. Stanford was amazed by the other's ability to maneuver through the crowds in heels; he tried to keep up. 

In the gaps of party goers Stanford could see an opening by a white, foldout table. He assumed that this was what Bill was pulling him towards and his prediction was confirmed true as the blonde pulled him through one of those gaps. The pair now stood before a table of pre-poured drinks that Bill was now reaching for eagerly. Stanford stopped him, clasping Bill's reaching hand in his six-fingered one; this earned him a glare from the blonde. In response, Stanford only shook his head and reached for a cooler that sat under the table, pulling out two sealed bottles. He offered one to Bill whose expression softened as he accepted the drink. "Thanks," he muttered over the blaring noise. 

Stanford nodded his head in the direction of a nearby couch that was miraculously not already occupied. Leading the way to their seats, Stanford popped the cap off of his drink as he looked around the party casually. He was relieved to see that once they breached the initial sea of people, there seemed to be some less-crowded openings in the room. Where the pair sat now was one of those places, however, the dip in the worn, leather couch certainly did not make it feel less crowded as the two were pulled towards its center and into one another by the forces of gravity. 

Stanford exhaled and looked to the floor, pretending to not notice their proximity. Bill, however, was not bothered by their closeness as he took a sip of his own drink and leaned back against the couch, looking out on the sea of people around them. He was silent for some time, lost in his own thoughts as he observed the others. 

"Hey, Fordsie, need another drink," Bill said expressionlessly as his eyes directed themselves upwards to stare down the ceiling.

"Already?" Stanford questioned skeptically to which Bill held the empty glass bottle up in response.

"It's not working. I need more," he did not look away from the ceiling as he spoke. With an irritated sigh Stanford pushed himself up from his seat and began to walk back towards the table. Bill did not acknowledge the other's compliance as he continued to stare upward. The nails of his fingers tapped against the glass of the empty bottle he was still holding; he continued this action and soon his fingered began to move in a pattern, creating a melody from the sound of tapping glass and within his newfound state of disassociation he began to hum.

"Bill. Bill, hello...." Stanford spoke as he waved a hand in front of the other's face.

Once he finally caught the other's attention Bill grinned and the song he had been humming turned into singing as he accepted the drink from Stanford "we'll... meet again... don't know where —"

"Bill, are you certain that first drink did not have an effect on you?" Stanford asked worriedly as he took a sip of his own drink.

"What?" Bill asked, his smile fading as he seemed to fully register reality. As his surroundings began to set in, Bill felt a buzzing and tingling on his skin as he began to drink his second drink. "Heh..." he laughed dryly as he stared down at the bottle in his hand "maybe it had a little bit of an effect on me..."

Stanford was quiet for a moment as he considered his response. He lifted a hand to rest on Bill's shoulder, however, he quickly pulled it back as upon making contact with the other, he felt an electric pulse shoot through his arm. Bill looked to his friend with curiosity, not aware of what caused Stanford to jolt away from him so suddenly. 

"Maybe this wasn't a good idea," Stanford said after a few moments. “Maybe we should go?”

"What? We only just got here and now you want to leave?" Bill said irritably and moved away from the other so he could properly face him. As he downed the rest of his drink he continued to glare at Stanford. "I'm not leaving! I've been cooped up in the room for days and I'm finally able to be around other people who are not you....a-and you want to just haul me back to my r-r...oom."

"That was not what I was implying, Bill," Stanford said calmly as he stood from the couch. "I don't think taking you to a party when we don't even know who you are is a good idea. That is all I'm suggesting." 

With an annoyed huff Bill took the drink from Stanford's hand. "I don't need you to take me a-anywhere, Fordsie!" He downed the drink quickly and tossed the empty bottle onto the couch before stepping closer to Stanford and prodding his chest with his index finger; the familiar shock of his touch pulse throughout Stanford's body as he continued to speak "if you don't want to be here then-then you can….lea-leave! But I'm staying!" 

Stanford rolled his eyes at the other's childish actions and took a step back. "You are being ridiculous Bill! I'm not leaving you here. Something is going on. I'm trying to help you."

"I never asked for your help!" Bill finally yelled, which drew a few glances in their direction.

Tightening his jaw, Stanford was silent for a moment as he stared down at the man he now recognized as being drunk, and an angry one at that. "Fine. I'll leave," Stanford said, however, he had no intention of leaving but to instead wait outside.

"Good..." Bill said, his expression falling from rage to disappointment. "...go." He fell back onto the couch and looked anywhere that was not Stanford. He did not see or hear the brunette leave but his absence became obvious when Bill began to hear the torturous thoughts of the other party goers. Their insignificant troubles and pitiful aspirations flooded his own thoughts in waves of sound that was louder than the blaring music. Hopelessly Bill covered his ears but it did no more than muffle the music; it did nothing to silence the voices of those around him.

He was quick to feel remorse for sending Stanford away as he now felt alone and helpless.

Stanford sat on the steps of the front porch. He had grabbed another beer on his way out and now sat occasionally sipping from it as he waited for Bill to grow tired of the party and decide to leave. He rested his cheek against the cold metal railing as his eyes were tempted to close from exhaustion. 

He must have fallen asleep, for when he opened his eyes his half full bottle had fallen to the ground and burst on the brick steps, however, the lack of the cold drink in his hand was not what woke him but instead the company by his side.

"You didn't leave," Bill hiccuped drunkenly as he spoke; his hands clasped Stanford's bicep, sending waves of electricity through him that was not enough to cause pain but surely enough to wake him.

"We have a deal. I'm supposed to help you, remember. You only just regained.... your b-balance, I'm not making you walk home...alone" Stanford slurred his speech and looked to the other with a small smile.

"Thank you...I want to go back to my dorm now."


	6. Chapter 6

Waterlogged boots squished and squeaked, causing Stanford Pines to grimace at the irritable sound. As his feet scuffed the now rain slick tile flooring of the dormitory. Stanford's consciousness was slowly sobering up due to the far past tipsy blonde that hung onto his side. In His hands the brunette held onto the high heeled shoes that Bill had abandoned for the sake of sparing his sore ankles. The younger now kept one arm hooked around Stanford's neck to keep him standing, but luckily he was also gifted the help of a six-fingered hand that was looped around his waist to be thankful for as it held a majority of his weight. His bare feet slid on the cold, slick floor and often got in the way of Stanford's. The pair carried on like this until they reached the familiar metal framed door of Bills dorm room. After a nudge from the other, Bill was reminded to fish the room key from his pocket. 

Dangling the key from a single, silver key-ring he offered it to Stanford in hopes that the other's vision would be clear enough to find the keyhole in the door. "I feel like a bee," Bill slurred as he leaned forward into the room, finally detaching himself from Stanford's side. He allowed himself to purposely fall in front of the dresser. He began shuffling through the contents of the drawers looking for an outfit to wear to bed. 

"Why is that?" Stanford asked through a yawn as he moved into the room, shutting the door behind him.

"My skin feels buzzy," Bill explained simply, "...and cold. I'm cold; I'm going to take a shower." He closed the drawer without retrieving any clothing, his mind already set on warming up in the shower.

"What does that mean-nevermind-listen, Bill, you need to sleep. You can hardly stand up," Stanford countered.

"No, I'm going to take a shower," Bill declared unchallenged by Stanford's insistence of keeping him in the dorm room for the rest of the evening. "Besides I can stand up just-" he hiccuped as he grasped the dresser to pull himself upwards "-fine!"He declared as both his feet lay flat on the floor, however, most of his body weight was now being held up by the dresser.

Stanford hummed in false agreement as he walked towards the dresser to assist the clearly struggling blonde. He reached out to help him stand. "Yes, you certainly proved me wr-ow! You shocked me!" Stanford hissed and pulled away, causing Bill to cry out as he collapsed back onto the floor; his water soaked dress making a slapping noise as it collided with the tile. "Sorry," Stanford mumbled with half interest as he was too busy concerning himself with the mildly painful shock he had received after making physical contact with the blonde. He had felt an odd static from the other since the two had begun drinking, and while he had not overlooked it, it was certainly not the strangest of Bill's symptoms so was instead tucked away in his mental notes for later. However, this shock was more than a prick or buzz; it hurt, and that was interesting.

"I told you I was buzzy!" Bill complained from his pitiable heap on the floor.

"How was I supposed to know what that means?" Stanford put a hand to his temple and was quiet for a moment as he thought. Shaking his head and letting his hand fall to his side he spoke again. "You need to sober up. You stay put and get dressed, I'm going to get you some coffee and food; that may help some. Do not leave," Stanford ended sternly. He eyed Bill suspiciously as he left the room; a part of him feared that the blonde would ignore his request and leave the security of the room while unsupervised. He shut the door behind him and listened to the silence that overtook the room. Once he decided that the noise was nothing out of the ordinary, he began the long and tiring journey down to the first floor. 

As the time was nearing midnight, Stanford was certain that the school's store had closed hours ago so he instead decided to take the extra hike to a nearby gas station, however, it was not as if he had much of a choice. Heavy drops of rain plopped down from the sky; the fat drops of water only soaked Stanford's previously damp jacket, however the weather didn't bother him much. He was already chilled down to his bones and was certain that if he did not catch a cold this evening it would only be by some sort of miracle. 

With that though Stanford began dreading the inevitable cold that would be sure to interrupt his studies. It was then that he began to see all he was doing for Bill. The question that constricted his mind was merely 'why?' He had set his life aside for a complete stranger, unquestionably helping a man that he had not even known a week ago. He cursed himself for even sacrificing his own health in favor of trudging through the unrelenting rain just so he could get a coffee and some food because the man in question drank a bit to much. Is it sympathy? He wondered. He had met the other at vulnerable state and was determined to help him, but for how long? He supposed the mysteriousness of the situation would make it worth his time, but what percentage of his time would he sacrifice?

Stanford was pulled from his nagging thought as he heard the piercing bell above the gas station's door chime, notifying the occupants of his presence. He was quick to grab some pretzels from the shelf and then move to the self service coffee station. The store was quiet except for the rain drops that pounded against the glass doors. A lone worker sat on a stool behind the counter, occasionally glancing away from the muted television that sat on a corner shelf to look at Stanford. 

Wrapping his hand around the paper cup, Stanford was grateful for that warmth that radiated from it. It was a welcoming heat that was generous enough to return the feeling to his six digits, however, it did not shy away from causing Stanford to realize just how cold he had been. He did not want to walk through the rain again and he hoped it would lighten up before he left the store. 

As Stanford moved to approach the checkout the above fluorescent lights began to flicker and dim before finally settling on darkness; Along with the failed lights was the unfortunate sound of the heat cutting off. The television on the overhead shelf clicked off as well, leaving himself and the store clerk alone in darkness. 

-

Jerking away from the light switch Bill cried out; the mild pain of electricity coursing through his body left him momentarily stunned. He had reached for the light switch, and intended to turn off the lights that were playing aid to his forming headache. However, upon contact with the light a spark of blue ignited from his fingertips and in the window behind him the city fell black. Taking two cautious steps backwards, the backs of his legs touched the cushioned edge of the bed. Bill allowed himself to lean into it, sitting back and staying put as he let his eyes adjust to the scarce moonlight. He impatiently tapped his fingers silently on the blanket, peering out the window at the moon hiding behind the clouds. It gave off a dim light, but as his eyes adjusted he was able to make out the various shapes of furniture in his room.

With an annoyed huff he fell back on to his bed, raising his hand to look at its shadowed outline. He moved it, the strange feeling he had was no longer painful, but he felt restless. He wiggled his fingers and in his attempted to release his extra energy. Amidst his attempts he snapped his fingers. That was when something odd happened. A small spark, a single fleck of neon blue light flew from his rubbing fingers. Quickly sitting up, he did it again, and again another blue spark emerged. "What the...," he muttered under his breath. He snapped his fingers again, and upon this third attempted a wave of blue electricity formed, it ran down his fingers and formed a puddle in his palm. The illuminating blue did not stay put for long as it began to rise and dance as a flame.

The swirling flame flickered in the shine of Bill's now wide eyes. The buzzing energy that lingered in his veins began to shift its attention to the hand that expelled the fire, aiding it in maintaining its steady glow. It illuminated the room with a calm blue light. 

Bill had yet to notice the observing stare of Stanford who had pushed open the door. He had Returned empty handed and drenched in cold water. Walking down the long, dark hall, Stanford had approached the room expecting Bill to be long since asleep or at least still laying on the floor wear he had left him. Instead the brunette's glasses now reflected a blue glow as he took in the situation that had been thrust upon him. His mouth fell open as he tried to choose his words, "Bill-what...how?" He stumbled. He was able to catch the other's attention now as Bill's eyes shifted up to meet his.

"I don't know!" Bill said back defensively, half frightened by Stanford's sudden presence. Stepping cautiously into the room Stanford grabbed his notebook from the desk without taking his eyes away from it. He wished to waste no time in taking note of this odd occurance, From his coat pocket he retrieved a pen and flipped open the book to a new page. Bill grew annoyed,shooting a glare to the other. "What are you doing?' He spat, "help me!"

"I am helping" Stanford explained as he began sketching out the flame.. "Does it burn?' He questioned and Bill's frown deepened.

Bill quickly came to his own conclusion that Stanford would be the worst person to be in a crisis with "I don't know, Fordsie. Why don't you stick your hand in it and tell me?'

"I'm just trying to take note of this so we have a record of your oddities."

"Fine, it doesn't hurt. But if it did I'd rather you help me put it out instead of writing about it," Bill mumbled as he heard Stanford scribble something in his book.

"Well, without the light, I wouldn't be able to take notes," Stanford grinned which only frustrated Bill more.

Looking down at his hand Bill mumbled, "That's it...How do I put this thing out?" He began baling his hand in and out of a fist, however, the action had no effect on the flame.

Stanford looked back up from his notes, staring at the blue flame curiously again. "what does it feel like?" He asked, earning another annoyed huff from the other. 

"It doesn't feel like anything temperature-wise. Just tickles a bit," Bill explained as he fell back onto the bed, holding his hand above him. "Don't you have class in the morning? Maybe you should go to sleep?"

"Luckily the power will probably be out long enough for class to be canceled; thank you for that by the way." Stanford smiled triumphant in annoying the other who was responsible for making him walk up three stories in a pitch black stairwell. Sliding off his coat, Stanford let it drop to the floor with a loud slapping sound. The wooden chair creaked as he adjusted himself and became as comfortable as he could in his damp clothing. With his notebook settled in his lap the student began to add more details to his original drawing of the flame. The pair were silent for some time as the student was preoccupied with his notes. Bill began to grow impatient, his foot tapping in frustration.

"Well I would like to sleep," the blonde spoke up matter-of-factly, "I had a long night, I'm tired, I'm still a little drunk, and my hand is on fire." He tried to smother the flames with his other hand, darkening the room as he concealed the light. Small helpless flames slipped between his fingers, however, they were soon extinguished and all signs of blue light were gone. "Oh...that worked!" He smiled proudly to himself.

Stanford tightened his jaw with quiet rage while Bill grinned and began to pull back his covers. "Why would you do that? That could have helped-"

Bill interrupted, "Just how would've it helped? It's just another annoyance.. everything seems to be," his voice was low and disappointed now.

Stanford huffed, not having an answer but choosing not to admit that. "Fine, goodnight," he said as he stood from his chair. Bill could not make out any details of him other than his silhouette which blocked out the moonlight. A yawn fell from his lips, which he tried to veil but did so unsuccessfully. He wavered as he stood, exhaustion finally falling over him. 

"Stanford..." Bill started in a sad and guilt tainted tone, feeling unwell about shoving off the other when he only wanted to help. "Do you want stay-I-I mean! What if I catch fire again and you weren't here to ask annoying questions?" He stumbled over his word unconvincingly as he spoke.

"You want me to stay?"

"As long as you don't get in my bed with damp clothes." Bill said, but his cheeks darkened as his words could easily be interpreted differently than he intended. "I mean... you need a change of clothes...or something..." 

Stanford laughed and fell back into the creaky chair, one hand resting on his stomach as his body shook with laughter. "You really can not say it, can you?"

"Say what?" Bill frowned.

"You want me to stay."

"I want someone to help me if more than my hand catches fire next time." Bill explained, his cheeks felt hot and he was grateful for the darkness of the room that hid his tinted cheeks.

Stanford was quiet for a moment; he did not speak, but the creak of the wood notified Bill of his movement. Steady footsteps moved towards the exit before the opening and closing of the door proved that the room was empty now. Bill was left on his own in the darkened room. He sighed, remaining still while he processed the tinge of rejection that felt like a sinking feeling in his chest, however, he quickly pushed the feeling to the side and sunk into his blankets, nuzzling into the pillow. He felt consciousness began to fade, the rain and sounds from just outside of his window became soothing static as odd scenes and pictures that lacked meaning were playing out in his head. He could forget about the pain until morning.

It was sometime later that Bill was startled awake by a dip in the bed. The mattress sunk, pulling him into the force that had weighed down the mattress. His face was planted into the warm, flannel fabric that covered Stanford's chest. Upon realizing the incident, Bill pulled away from the other's warmth, however, sleep still weighed heavy on his consciousness making him unable to notice the arm that held him lightly in place. "I thought you left?" He asked, buthe had already drifted off to sleep before he received an answer.

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been wanting to write a Billford fic for a while now and I’m very excited about this one. I hope you enjoy.


End file.
